Only the Moon Watching

Chapter 9: What's My Type?

"What's your type then?" I ask Shiv during recreation.

We're outside for the first time, in a fenced-in area the size of a basketball court, tossing a deflated kickball between us. I'm so tired, it's hard to keep my eyes open in the sun. I haven't slept in over twenty-four hours. (I was also desperate for a shower, until Shiv told me that the water's always cold and the floor is covered in a slippery later of unidentified mold so we all have to leave our shoes on...)

"Haven't known him yet," says Shiv. "I think he's probably foreign?" Her voice lilts up at the end, as she squints her eyes and tries to commit to an accent:

"Moight be... A nice bloke who goes traveling with me," she says in Cockney.

"Or, a lad who likes to watch trash TV," she says, skewing Australian.

"Or–" She tries to do something heavier, but thinks better of it, and cuts herself off.

"I want someone funny," she says plainly. "Someone funnier than me, better at accents, better at impressions. Someone who does things I don't expect. Someone who thinks it's awesome I did time because it makes for a good story. I thought college would be full of boys to like, but I found –" she squats and throws the kickball at my chest – "That if you asked them to tell you a story they'd just start rattling off whatever they wrote on their college admissions essays. I don't want that polished, five-paragraph-essay shit. I want grit."

I throw the ball back and she catches it hard, deflating it even more.

"Shouldn't you have found someone on the bowl then?" I ask. "Guys in here must be –" to borrow her word: "–the grittiest. Have you talked to everyone?"

Shiv turns her eyes to the tower above us, glaring. "Hell no! You've got guys in here who are murderers, pedos... I know I look young, I wasn't giving my photos out to just anyone! Besides, I'm too cave-girl for talking the bowl. I can't just read a cute kite and fall for someone, I need to know what our in-person chemistry's like. Animal magnetism, you know? Does the way they smell make me absolutely fucking feral? Do I want to just rip off his skin and crawl inside with him?

"I read a lot at school so I've heard all the nicest sentiments you can tell someone. I read Gone Girl twice: that bit about how anyone can act like the perfect widow or the most passionate lover or the best friend or whatever? We've all seen enough movies to have memorized the script. I could make Steak fall in love with me if I wanted, I'd know what to say, what buttons to push, what he wants to hear, but it would all just be acting. I can't know if I like someone unless I've seen them up close. I need to know whether or not they have nose hairs, you know?"

I put a hand over mine, reflexively; wondering if she's been scrutinizing my blackheads and unibrow peach fuzz this whole time.

"What's your type then?" she challenges. "If tall, dark, most handsome guy in prison isn't appealing to you...in jail, I mean," she corrects herself. "Just jail, not prison. Sorry – I always make things more dramatic than they need to be..."

"My type doesn't matter," I remind her. "Because I'm about to get out."

"You've got fancy parents then? A sugar daddy? Something like that?"
"Something like it."

I shrug. I've got fancy – absent – parents. Depending on the cell service at their hotel, they might not even know I've been arrested yet... Surely they wouldn't leave me in here if they did? I understand wanting to scare a kid straight, but more than that, wouldn't my mom want to save herself the embarrassment of having a delinquent kid? I keep expecting them to swoop in her, bail me out, and cover this all up...

"I'm not trying to marry you off, Jos," Shiv promises. "But boys make a lovely distraction in a place that can't even bother to inflate the kickballs and cook the mystery meat. And Steak is especially–"

"Girdle says we're never allowed to speak to the boys, didn't she? So what does it matter if he –"

"Really is a prime cut of meat?" Shiv tucks the kickball under her shirt, and pretends that Steak is so hot, just the thought of him got her pregnant.

"We're not supposed to have contact with the boys but we do. The guards don't really care as much as they pretend to! Jail's boring, most days. They zone out too. You want to get a one-on-one date with a trustee? I'll tell you how to do it: just trip in front of Garda Girdle, dump your whole lunch tray. She won't be the one cleaning it up! She'll call some trustees in, make you sit and watch your lunch get cleared away – and as punishment you won't get a new plate – but you'll be able to check out the eye candy up close. Get a sense of who can or can't back up whatever they wrote."

Shiv pretends to have labor pains, doubles over, and delivers the kickball. She passes it to me: "It's a baby! Oh lord, a baby boy! Let's call him Steak Jr. Isn't he just the cutest little meatball you've ever seen?"